A/N: Thanks for the reviews, everyone, and apologies to anyone who finds Quidditch scenes tedious - this is the last one for the time being, honest.
Chapter 25 - France vs Spain
All too quickly, the last day of their trip had come, and the Weasleys, along with their various guests, were getting ready to leave for the final. Despite their reluctance to end the holiday, everyone was hugely excited about the coming match. By the time they reached the stadium, they knew everyone else in the camp and the nearby village was, too.
Spectators were rushing in to take their seats, and there was barely a minute to kick-off as the Weasleys took their seats, once again on the front row, in the French stands. Unlike last time, everyone in the Weasley party was fully bedecked in fan gear. Everyone had a scarf in the French colours draped around their necks, Fleur was wearing a short, powder blue dress that had drawn more than a few stares from passers-by (each of which had been met by a glare from Bill), and Charlie had a large top hat in the same colour jammed onto his head – much to his annoyance, he was forced to take it off once they took their seats, because nobody for three rows behind him could see the pitch. Less than a minute after Harry sat down, he was watching the teams emerge.
The French team was a familiar sight – seven players in blue who shot out of the far tunnel, waving to the home crowd in the stands as they soared around in circles. Harry noticed the new Beater, Griffon, looking unmistakeably nervous behind her exhilarated smile, as the French team assembled by the hoops at the far end of the pitch.
From beneath them, the Spanish team emerged, and Harry's first impression was of a troupe of matadors. Where the French were clad in subtle, pale blue, the seven Spanish players were wearing golden yellow robes, with bright red trousers. They flew to the Spanish end of the stadium, punching the air and cheering, then circled around and came to hover on the near side, fifty metres or so from Harry.
While Harry checked the hedge maze on the floor once more – seeing the familiar French crest and its winged horse, as well as the Spanish crest, resplendent with a charging bull – the referee emerged, a dark-skinned American who the commentator announced as "Marshall". He flew to the centre, Quaffle in hand, and the French Keeper Bastien once more flew down to meet him, this time joined by one of the Spanish Beaters, who was named as Vasco Santini in Harry's brochure. The referee gave a quick nod to each captain, the commentator gabbled something in rapid French, the Chasers assembled, and then the Quaffle was hurled high into the air, to a roar from all corners of the stadium.
There was a flurry of activity in the centre of the pitch, and every time Harry saw someone get their hands on the Quaffle, he would hurriedly check his brochure to find out who it was. Finally, Santini sent a Bludger hurtling into the midst of the tussle, the Quaffle dropped, and Garcia, one of the Spanish Chasers, dived after it, grabbing the scarlet ball and streaking off up the pitch. Moments later, she had ducked a tentatively-hit Bludger from the new French Beater, Griffon, but was delayed long enough to be tackled by Marat, one of the French Chasers. Marat in turn got half way to the Spanish hoops, on the near side of the stadium, before she was intercepted and also knocked off her broom by Cartaya – the Spaniard grabbed the Quaffle herself, then shot back off in the other direction.
This exchange continued for quite some time – one team would get the Quaffle, get almost to the opposition's goal hoops, and then be tackled or robbed of possession in some way. The first shot at goal came when Marat broke away, headed for the Spanish hoops, ducked an attempted tackle by Garcia, and bounced a shot through the left-hand hoops, to a cry of delight from the French fans, the Weasleys and Harry included.
The next goal came from Spain – the Keeper, Felino, tossed the Quaffle out to his Chasers once the French euphoria had died down, and they set off up the pitch in a staggered line. Garcia led the way, passing the ball back to Lébron as Marat and Mallard dove at her. Lébron ducked a slightly under-powered Bludger from Griffon, feinted right, and then hurled the ball left past Lafarge into empty space. Cartaya shot out into open air, snatched the Quaffle in one hand, and was away, quicker than any of the French Chasers could catch her. Before the French fans had even finished celebrating their first goal, Cartaya had slammed an equaliser past Bastien, and it was the Spanish end's turn to fill with noise.
Harry had to admit, this game far surpassed the France-Nordic Team match as an example of Quidditch at its finest. That match had been made incredible by Andersen's domination, whereas this one was incredible for the sheer closeness of the score. Both teams played brilliantly, and in very similar styles, with Chasers ducking and weaving around tackles rather than ploughing head-first into them like some teams did.
Half an hour in, the score was fourty-thirty to Spain, as Josephine Marat narrowly missed a shot at the Spanish goals. Quite suddenly, the stadium fell into a deathly hush, as two blurs shot downwards towards the near end of the pitch, one yellow, one blue. The two Seekers had spotted the Snitch, and were haring towards it. Harry saw the Spanish Seeker, Marrero, kick out – he was much bigger than the French Seeker, Peltier, and she was forced to veer away to avoid being knocked off her broom. Marrero was reaching for the Snitch, he was metres away, and then –
WHAM!
Both ends gasped with surprise as a Bludger arced down and smashed into Marrero's shoulder. The new French Beater, Griffon, seemed to have found a reserve of thus-far untapped strength, and she had smashed the Bludger with such force that it ricocheted off the Spanish Seeker and hit the stone wall. As the hissing black ball dislodged itself, it left behind a sizeable crater in the sandstone, and sent a flurry of stone chips and powder dust falling to the turf below.
Marrero had dropped like a stone and lost all hope of catching the Snitch. He climbed back up to game level and rejoined the match, but Harry noticed him clutching his shoulder every minute or so, and it rested at an odd angle – Harry was sure the Spaniard's collarbone had been broken.
The French fans' relief was momentarily broken as Cartaya and Garcia each put away a goal, bringing the score to sixty-thirty, but after Cartaya was hit in the back by a Bludger from Lacroix, the French team responded, with Lafarge putting away two goals as repayment.
Over an hour later, the two teams were still going. At any other match, a fan or two might have started drifting out to get lunch, but this was the World Cup Final. No-one dared leave and risk missing the ending. The scores had risen to one hundred apiece, and Harry was watching another exchange between the Chasers, as the commentator listed off a steady procession of names, interspersed with rapid French.
"Marat... Mallard... Lafarge... Mallard – Garcia... Cartaya – Lafarge, Marat, Lafarge, Marat!"
The French Chaser swung upwards, ducked past the Spanish Keeper, and hurled the ball over his head. It soared in a wide arc and fell through the farthest hoop, bouncing off the bottom of the rim as it did with a resounding, gong-like noise.
The French end was far less enthusiastic about this goal than it was the first – the players had yet to tire, but the fans simply didn't have the energy to applaud every goal as they had at the start. Then, the familiar hush fell again, and Harry's eyes flickered between the two Seekers. Peltier was still hovering over the top layers of play, but Marrero was once more diving towards the Snitch, near the Spanish end. Peltier only set off after him when Lacroix flew past her, pointing panic-stricken at the Spanish Seeker. Luckily, she was closer to the Snitch than he was – although she hadn't quite spotted it herself, she was able to get in between Marrero and his destination, with painful consequences.
Harry winced as the two collided – Peltier, despite her desperate lunge, appeared to have come away unscathed. Marrero, however, looked to be in worse shape than ever. If his collarbone hadn't been broken before, it certainly was now – his shoulder slumped down at a lopsided angle, and his teeth were gritted with pain as he passed the French stands where Harry sat. Finally, he admitted his predicament and flew down to the ground, dismounting his broom as a trio of mediwizards rushed over.
The mediwizards cast a quick spell on Marrero – predictably, Hermione recognised it on sight as a pain relief charm – but he refused to leave the game to have his bones fixed, and soared back into the air to rejoin the match.
"Garcia... Cartaya... Lébron," the commentator shouted, as the three Spanish Chasers shot up the field, and sunk the Quaffle into the centre hoop. Harry, however, was watching the two Seekers circle high above – privately, he was hoping the game would end soon, and not drag on much longer.
True to his secret hopes, it took just a few minutes for the Seekers to find the Snitch again, and make a third attempt to end the already long-winded game. Just as the commentator announced another Spanish goal, and the scoreboard flickered to "110-130", Peltier dived from one side of the pitch, Marrero from the other, both heading for the centre. They swerved to one side, and everyone seemed to think they'd chickened out, but Harry's eyes could just see the glimmer of gold ahead of them, as they reached the edge of the stadium, turned left again, and shot off along the outer wall.
The chase seemed to be obvious to everyone now, and a goal from Lébron was utterly ignored by everyone except the enchanted scoreboard – even the commentator was too busy watching the Seekers to announce it.
Harry stood up to watch the two fliers as they came closer – in the corners of his vision, he saw Ginny and Ron rise on either side of him, as everyone craned over the stone barrier to get a better view. The two players shot past, a few metres below, as the little golden Snitch tried its damnedest to evade them. They passed back towards the Spanish stands, then looped around the pitch once more, as every eye in the stadium tried to follow them, and another goal apiece for the two teams' Chasers were ignored.
As they passed the French goal hoops for the second time, the Snitch darted inwards and made its way across the middle of the pitch. Both Seekers swerved after it, darting between the huge posts and heading for the Spanish hoops, behind which Harry and the other French supporters were sat. Peltier and Marrero were flying just a few feet above the hedge tops, ignoring the Quaffle being passed over their heads, and Carmen Garcia swinging upwards to avoid them.
When the two Seekers were half way across the pitch, with Peltier slightly in the lead, all eyes suddenly fixed on another golden-robed figure swooping down towards them. Tiago Montoya, one of the Spanish Beaters, was racing down towards them, eyes focused on a Bludger just above their heads. He pulled his arm back and made a monumental swing at the little black bullet. He seemed to overbalance slightly, but managed to send the Bludger hurtling at Cybéle Peltier.
The next few moments seemed to pass in slow motion, and everyone in the stadium held their breath. Peltier glanced up from the Snitch, her eyes widened, and she pressed her body as flat as she could against the handle of her broom. She dropped a few inches, the tips of her toes scraping across the top of the hedge maze, as the Bludger soared at her. It missed her head by a fraction of an inch, shot past, and slammed straight into Inigo Marrero.
The Spanish fans released their held breaths in a roar of anger and dismay, as Marrero recoiled, and his already-broken collarbone was pulverised by the speeding Bludger. He roared, toppled backwards off his broom, and smashed through one of the low hedges before rolling to a stop on the turf.
Mediwizards were rushing into the maze just as they had done for Olaf Andersen two days before, but now all eyes were on Cybéle Peltier. Despite almost crashing her broom to avoid the Bludger, she had managed to keep her eyes firmly on the Snitch – it veered upwards, and she followed, putting on a burst of speed as they rocketed towards the Spanish hoops. The Keeper, Felino, was guarding the left hoop as Peltier sped towards the right, and he seemed to be considering blocking her – either way, he didn't make up his mind in time. Before he had chance to shoot across and get in her way, the French Seeker had reached the goal.
The Snitch shot through the hoop in a golden blur. Peltier followed in a much bigger blue blur. As she did, Harry saw her drop sideways off her broom, hanging on with only one arm and one leg as she reached down – it was just a few inches away, just one inch, just a fraction of an inch now...
She made a wild grab with her right hand, Harry saw her pale fist clench around the golden orb, and the French fans exploded into raucous cheers, drowning out the lingering Spanish howls.
Everyone was on their feet now, and the sheer wall of noise seemed more likely to knock Peltier from her broom than any Bludger. So caught up were they in the celebrations, the Weasleys and their guests had forgotten that they weren't actually French – with the exception of Fleur, of course. Indeed, Fleur screamed the loudest of them all, and pulled Bill into a huge kiss that drew incredulous stares from the surrounding French fans. Before Harry quite knew what was happening, Ginny had embraced him in a crushing hug, as Hermione and Ron did the same, everyone still dancing up and down – more to avoid insulting the French fans than anything else.
Peltier had only had a few moments of jubilance to herself before her teammates caught up to her. The three Chasers were first to reach her, closely followed by the young reserve Beater Griffon, who seemed to be utterly shocked at winning, and was grinning broadly. The two big men of the team, the Beater Lacroix and the Keeper Bastien, clapped each other on the back, then joined the group hug. The French team whirled around in a collective mass of limbs and blue robes, until they finally released each other, and headed for the large stone platform that served as the commentary stand.
The Spanish team and fans were the picture of dismay. Santini, the captain, was sporting enough to swoop down and offer his congratulations, shaking hands with Bastien, and the victorious Peltier. Garcia and Lébron followed suit, clapping the French Chasers on the back and hiding their disappointment. Harry also assumed they were hiding their worry – Cartaya and Felino were both on the ground, clustered around Marrero with the mediwizards, as Tiago Montoya headed for the changing rooms, throwing down his Beater's bat in shame.
From the far end of the stadium, Harry could only just see the French team swoop towards the commentary stand, landing one by one. Once they were all assembled, the Quidditch World Cup surfaced, in the hands of the commentator – a black-robed wizard who must have been of some importance to be offered the role – and was handed to the Keeper, Bastien, while the French fans continued to roar and clap, as did some of the more fair-minded Spanish fans. Bastien held the trophy aloft, and Harry could just about see the ornate golden affair as it was handed around to each of the Chasers, to the two Beaters, and finally to Cybéle Peltier. As she took it, Lacroix and Bastien ambushed her, hauling her up onto their shoulders with the cup still held tightly in her hands.
Harry took another look at his companions, and laughed as he realised Fleur had only just stopped kissing Bill, who looked rather shell-shocked. Ginny leant over, and whispered in his ear, as the French team took off for a lap of honour, blue smoke trailing out of the end of each of their brooms.
"No Dark Mark this time, hey Harry?" she muttered, smiling. Despite the grimness of those memories, he couldn't help grinning back.